Nightmares
by Sibyllaa Dixgard
Summary: He didn't often have trouble with the nightmares anymore, but sometimes, they still haunted him, and Sherlock knew that tonight would be one of those times.


**So this is the second story I'm uploading, ever. I'm not a native speaker so if I make any mistakes, please tell me about them - or not. I am aware that this topic has probably be dealt with numerous times, but this is my take on it. I neither own Sherlock nor do I get money for this story and maybe you'll be so kind as to leave me a review, they're love.  
Thanks for reading!**

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Sherlock stretched out on their sofa and hummed contentedly, drumming his fingers against his chest and wriggling his toes. John, who was sitting across from him in his armchair, looked up, a smile playing on his lips. He put the paper he had been reading down and yawned, standing up he turned towards the kitchen, tossing, "Tea?" over his shoulder.

The genius nodded absentmindedly, knowing full well that although John couldn't see him he'd get a cup anyway.

And just like that, a couple of minutes later he had a steaming mug in front of him and John was standing above him until he drew his knees towards him. When the good doctor had sat down, he promptly found himself with a lapful of consulting detective feet.

He didn't seem to mind though as he merely rested the cup in his hands on one pajama clad leg and turned the telly on.

After a bit of zapping through the programs a report on the latest developments in the Afghan war zone caught his attention and Sherlock stiffened, fully focused on the good doctor now. The man himself merely stroked circles on his calf with the pad of his thumb as if to say he'd be fine, but the lines on his face visibly hardened.

Sherlock knew, he knew John wanted to see what happened over there, knew he was a grown man and had the right to choose how much he could handle himself; but he also knew another side of John, and he knew of the nightmares which still plagued him after too much of a reminder of his own time in war.

John wouldn't, maybe couldn't show how much the images still got to him, but at night the cries of the battlefield would haunt him, the blood and the sand real in his memory.

Since they had become lovers he didn't often have trouble with the nightmares anymore, but sometimes, they still haunted him, and Sherlock knew that tonight would be one of those times.

He would wake up to a shivering, trembling mess of the man he loved, and at first he'd been at a loss as of what to do, how to calm his lover. But he had experimented and it hadn't taken him long to figure out that any attempt at waking John would only result in a trip to the floor, if he was lucky, and in worse cases a black eye or a split lip. So he did what he could best, he talked to John, and he did what always had been hardest for him; he touched him. In using his voice with soothing words and his whole body with familiar, loving touches, he was able to calm John down.

John would almost always wake up after a while, finding himself completely wrapped up in his lanky lover, fingers carding through his hair, lips pressed to his neck, his chest, his collarbone, mumbling sweet nothings into his skin. And Sherlock loved what always came next when John woke up; frenzied kisses, hurried hands, rushed affirmations of being there, then, in that moment, together; John's need to feel, to make sure he was really home, in their bed, where he belonged, far away from the blood and the sand.

He'd offer himself up to John, half feeling bad for how he'd waited for it, the moment John would wake up and fuck him, cover his body in marks and tear him apart with fast and hard thrusts, holding his wrists above his head, needing him to come from just that, the frantic rhythm of John's cock against his prostate, the friction his own cock got from being rubbed between their bellies not nearly enough but then, John would bite down on his shoulder, making him cry out and arch toward him and it was as if Sherlock's cries were spurring him on, making him teeter towards the edge and that would bring Sherlock over it, crying out his lovers name, clenching around his stuttering cock until John would bury deep and they would collapse. A sticky, tangled mess, aching in the best way, nightmares almost forgotten, one man still basking in the glow of his orgasm, the other man, slowly pulling out, tenderly placing kisses over his lovers abused body, licking and kissing forming bruises, wiping him clean carefully.

Sherlock would tell him that he loved him then, and it would be John's turn to wrap him up, whispering sweet nothings into heated skin until they both slowly drifted back off to sleep.


End file.
